THE PASSING SHOW.

(By THE MAN ABOUT TOWN.) EASTER EGG. A merry wight, the Gordonite, In need of Egypt's corn, Devised a plan to give each man An egg for Easter morn. He says he must have tons of "dust" To manage his pet scheme; A shilling round from every pound He now will skim as cream. Dear Mr. Coates, you've got our goats, Prom head to each hind leg; To be quite frank, we think it rant — Tour lovely Easter egg! _M I T. Personally one remains calm at the caMed news that a Swedish prince has married a merchant's daughter who is not royal. But the fact that he and she POLICE! went to a London registry office to be joined is of interest. Even this, however, is of less interest than the message that "Mrs. Bernadotte" delighted the London police escort by pinning roses to their tunics. No New Zealander has ever seen a police constable wearin"- a rose in uniform, and it is probable that this was the first occasion in London where the police said it with flowers. If the regulations were lifted to permit floral demonstrations there is no reason why our force should not wear wreaths of shamrock round their helmets, and it is a wonder that Mr. Mcllveney during his reign didn't think of it the same time as he revived the shako, which has again disappeared. It seems unthinkable to the multitude, who are potential prisoners of Mr. Hop, that there should be any sartorial deviation from established custom. M.A.T. remembers the horror felt when sitting amongst a large group of local police who were on a boat en route to a function. He suddenly looked dowr and saw a pair of jazz socks with clocks on peeping from beneath the trouser ends of a stalwart sergeant. It seemed unthinkable that a police officer could effect an arrest in jazz socks, just as it would be perfectly frightful to permit an admiral to take charge of a fleet clothed in blue dungarees. Still, there is the notable instance of a captain of the Royal Navy going into action clothed in the mat of a Maori chief. One is afraid that any aippeal to Mr. Wohlmann for "Buttonholes for Bobbies" will have a cold reception.

PERSONALITY OF THE WEEK,

Meet Mr. I. J. Goldstine, Mayor of One Tree Hill, barrister, and member of the finm of Messrs. Goldstine and O'Donnell, barristers and solicitors. He was NO. 252. born in Brisbane but was still very young when he came to Auckland, where he has been ever since. Ho was a member of the old One Tree Hill Road Board, and when the board became a municipality he became a councillor and subsequently the Mayor. A keen and careful administrator, he was for two years president of the Local Bodies' Association and in his own borough has initiated beneficial improvements. He is a member of the One Tree Hill Domain Board and of the Auckland and Suburban Drainage Board. "No," said he, "I have no pretensions to being a f real' golfer, but live in hopes of reducing my handicap same day." Not only Good Friday but Good Bakeday! Few folk realise how many hot-cro3s buns are stowed beneath the communal pinny. Perspiring bakers acknowHAVE A BUN? ledge working twentytwo hours on end preparing the hot-cross bun and the extra loaf for the Easter season. One local baker admits turning out a:bout two hundred and fifty dozen buns. Presuming that there are six bakers determined to assuage the gargantuan appetite of Auckland bun-caters, there have been eighty-six thousand four hundred buns with the emblem consumed locally. It is understood that one bag of flour produces two hundred and forty dozen buns. Eminent bakers, of course, are the source of the information, but it is early in the day to interview any eminent chemist, although it is insisted that the average normal person may consume at least six buns without fear of dyspepsia. By the "way, even if mother receives her ration of hot-cross buns cold, she pops 'cm into the oven and brings them hot to table. Why? Most people like those shiny buns, glazed in the charming way the 'bakers know. Various bakers brand the bun in various ways, but the favourite method seems to be to make one slash up and one slash across with a knife before oventime. Still, there is a local bun with a white cross on it. A man who has eaten a bun every year for sixty years wonders how the inventor of the white cross does it. A white cross tastes just like a brown one. Birkenhead, which, with Birkdale, is the loveliest Auckland suburb, has recently awarded itself a brand spanking new fire station. There goes with the station a FIRE! noise; a siren with a voice like a lost soul which has greatly interested the public and the officials, who will, one supposes, be called into action by this device. Apparently anybody with a few hours to spare has recently spent them in trying out this device, and a splendid moan has been heard at frequent intervals. At first the local ass (the tattered outlaw with the long ears) was suspected of emitting this fearsome wail, but when the suburbanites found that it was merely civic progress they assumed a look of pride and boasted of the noise. The wail up to now has not coincided with any local fire, nor have the fire-fighters been called upon to answer the call, but it is hoped that the future has many chances for the legitimate use of the wail. Suburbs which have hitherto had no official noise are apparently jealous of the immense shriek daily performed by the siren of the Ferry Buildings, and are trying, with some success, to copy it. It will be recalled several years hence when wool is one and threepence a pound and strawberries three shillings a chip that the dark times of 1932 were selected for the improvement of civic property, and we shall then boast that even in the gloomiest days we were not downhearted and carried on in the good old British i way.